Imitating Rain
by lumofox
Summary: Nearing the mid-summer, in the middle of a prolonged drought, Wolfram waits for Yuuri to return.


The liquid evaporated from his shoulders almost as quickly as he could pour it over his head. The moisture in the room combined with the heat of his body was almost unbearable. Water and fire, after all, do not mix pleasantly. When they come into contact, one always bests the other. Water evaporated. Fire extinguished. Both are consumed simultaneously.

His hair retained the moisture his shoulders burned away. Drops of water formed at the ends of the stands that hung down over this face. His striking emerald eyes, green like the bottom of a lake, followed a drop of water as it built on the tip of his hair. The droplet swelled until it held enough mass to lose stability. It cascaded through the air, aimed direct for impact with the surface of the bath. Gentle ripples radiated out from the impact site, lapping imperceptibly against his fair skin. The small ripples lost their energy quickly, conforming to the still expanse of the the bathwater. He watched silently, immobile, as the water drops fell. He counted the time between the formation of the droplet and the disappearance of the droplet's impact diameter. Then he would start over with a new drop on the tip of his hair. Gentle rain.

The blond strands upon his head were bright as sunlight without a single blemish of darker coloring. The hair was a symbol of his lineage – pure and untarnished as his father's family line, luscious and full as his mother's famously acclaimed looks. He inherited the finest traits from both parents. People claimed his beauty the only rival of his mother's. He could win the favor and affection of any he desired with the fluttering of his long blond lashes and a flip of his hair. Even so, Wolfram von Bielefeld preferred to gain standing by his own efforts rather than rely on his pedigree.

A shiver travelled slowly down Wolfram's spine as he watched the droplets fall. The motion of his body caused small disturbances to disrupt the droplet ripples. He would have to restart count with a new drop. He watched patiently as the next drop formed before his eyes. It did so slowly and the buildup ceased before it was large enough to fall. The air on and between his shoulder blades went cold against the damp skin. The chill was intended, after all, Wolfram got far too hot when his temper peaked. If he left it unchecked, his fury would build itself into a raging firestorm. Water had always effectively cooled his head, even heated bath water. The evaporation of the liquid from his skin calmed the fires within until his body had cooled enough to allow liquid condensation again. The water was calming. He could feel a connection that was not truly there even when he was alone.

Eight months the water had been gone. The last rainstorm passed before the onset of the cold Winter. No snow fell. The rain failed to return with the coming of Spring. New growth was limited. It had been a while since more than a drizzling mist had fallen from the clouds. Mist could not be labeled rain and it did nothing to ease the dehydration of the land. Dryness clung to the season like a young child to their nurse. The brittle ground cracked with heat. Rich soils turned to sand. The nation's crops needed water. Parched plants riddled the countryside, good for only kindling if the rains did not return soon. The air suffocated, its particles interlaced with fire.

The mazoku of the lakes fretted about resources and productive land losses as the water receded from their shores. Farmers worried about the coming crop which had since failed on a large scale. Gwendal von Voltaire, Wolfram's eldest brother and the acting ruler of Shin Makoku in the Maou's absence, could hardly respond to all the requests for assistance that piled on his desk. Those mazoku who held contract with the element of water were employed in an attempt to stall the inevitable. None could hold the drought at bay for long or over any amount of significant area. Water could not be conjured from nothing by most of the mazoku with a water contract, and the land simply lacked the moisture necessary for any Majutsu working.

Wolfram desired the full heavy drops of proper rainfall. He longed for thunderstorms. He craved downpour. He yearned for the sound of rushing rivers and newly formed creeks. He lusted for floods. Shin Makoku had endured this drought long enough. The land itself ached for the return of its king.

Eight months the great Maou of Shin Makoku had been absent. He left, as he commonly did, for a trip to his homeworld, to his Earth, to his Japan. He promised to return soon, but the passage of time between the parallel worlds was sometimes unpredictable. Wolfram often worried the Maou would be away for decades only to return having aged but a day. Worse, he worried the Maou would be away for a day only to return having lived decades in his world where mazoku and humans intermingled, his world where the ruling Maou was a businessman and his trusted noblemen were bankers and accountants.

When the Maou promised to return 'soon', Wolfram hoped the Maou would return within the week. He would return within the month. The season. Now, he simply hoped the Maou would return. Period.

Wolfram was selfish. Any person in the castle would be likely to affirm it if you asked. He took things personally. He thought and acted on his emotions, not his reasoning. Everything was passion. He was quick to anger, quick to act, quick to adapt, quick to regret. Everything was fire. His flame was bright, but it burned itself out just as swiftly. He took everything personally. In a moment's decision he would take offence. He was not the type of person to engage contemplation readily though he had a knack for self-reflection. He was prideful. Wolfram was first to step into a fight if another were insulted because of a characteristic or loyalty that he shared. He was rash and tempestuous. And above all, Wolfram was lonely.

However, Wolfram could take care of himself. He had done so for eighty-two years before the Maou surfaced in his rightful world. For eighty-two years Wolfram had been fine to be alone. His relationships with his family and friends were enough company to reassure him of his importance in the world. He would not simply fade away like a candle flame reaching the end of its wick. His life had meaning within itself and he could take solace in his own achievements. Like his brothers, he did not need a companion to have a worthwhile life.

He could take care of himself fine. The warm bathwater slid across his scalp in rivulets, dripping from the tips of his bangs that hung in his eyes, congealing into drops on his cooler skin. Wolfram felt pathetic. He knew he was strong and driven even to the point of folly. And yet here he sat in the bath, pouring warm water over himself to emulate the rain. It made him feel connected.

It was a lie he told himself: Fire and Water could coexist.

The Maou had promised 'soon', but Wolfram knew his promises regularly took longer than expected. Wolfram was naturally impatient, but he had learned to wait. He waited for acceptance. He waited for affection. He waited for a wedding that might never come to pass. He could wait for the Maou's return. The wait was long and Wolfram had grown to hate sleeping alone. No matter how small he made the accommodations, his empty bed was always overfilled with the space where the other would otherwise lay. But Wolfram was a soldier and he would not be shaken by such things. He would wait patiently for the return of the Maou. He _could_ wait patiently for the return of the Maou. But as Winter faded to Spring and Spring to Summer, his insecurities tugged at his stubborn determination.

Eight months was a long absence. Shin Makoku needed her king. He held a responsibility to his people, to his land. He could not return soon enough. The land needed the rain. Winter and Spring had passed. Summer had begun some time ago. Soon it would be Mid-Summer and the violent heat would welcome the coming month of… Yuuri… That was what they called the Mid-Summer in some dialects in Shin Makoku. It was a sick joke the Universe played on Wolfram surely.

Wolfram sighed, his voice filled with his unquenched longing. He swore his sword to serve the Maou. He would happily swear his everything – his loyalty, his future, his heart. And yet the one place he could not follow the Maou was the one place he wanted most to stand by his side.

Wolfram's anxiety was ugly. He worried another would persuade the Maou to stay in his homeworld. He feared another would steal the Maou away from him. His insecurity buzzed in his ear, whispered suspicions and possible truths. It made him want to vomit.

He could take care of himself fine before the Maou came to Shin Makoku. He could take care of himself fine before the Maou proposed to him on accident. He could take care of himself fine before he met...

"Yuuri…" 

words:1,573


End file.
